


Hope & Memory

by MorningBright



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Drabble, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Melancholy but Hopeful, Mention of Death, My First Fanfic, New Years, Yuletide, and how well they would understand and help each other, i just had a lot of feelings about the parallels between Faramir and Eowyn's losses, i'm just going to post this and run
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:15:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28282278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MorningBright/pseuds/MorningBright
Summary: The end of the year has always been a time of reflection, memory, and hope. Three "Mettarë" (End of Year/Solstice) celebrations in Faramir's life. Coping with loss and looking to the future. Set in childhood, during LotR, and directly after LotR.
Relationships: Éowyn/Faramir (Son of Denethor II)
Kudos: 15





	Hope & Memory

**1\. Minas Tirith, Gondor. Mettarë of Year 2988 of the 3rd Age**

Winter in Minas Tirith was always somber and cold. Embers glowed low in the hearths of the great stone city, and men guarded their meager kindling against the cold nights, wrapping cloaks and blankets closer. Even the Steward’s house suffered from the lack of wood. In the midst of the cold season was _Mettarë:_ the longest, and last, night of the year. It was observed with a somber candlelight vigil atop the great keel of outthrust stone. Led by the Lord Steward, it acknowledged the world’s turn back towards light and warmth, and the beginning of a new year. Only the flickering of candles illuminated the great sea of people standing together in the snowy shadow of Mount Mindolluin. 

Upon returning home, extra wood was placed on the fire and a little more food prepared as a hopeful reprieve from the long cold days. This year however, in the fourth year of the Lord Denethor’s reign, no words could lift the gloom of bereavement that hung over the city in the wake of Lady Finduilas’ recent death.

In the near-darkness, the steward’s second son, no more than five years of age, sat stiffly and seemed to take no notice of the cold stone biting into his legs. The candlelight vigil, which had ended hours ago, had lacked its usual warmth and hopefulness, instead feeling hollow, as if preformed by rote. It was a fact noticed by all, though no one commented on it. For who could blame the Steward? It was a miracle he’d been able to give the speech at all. In the flickering candlelight the young steward’s face had looked lined and haggard has if he’d suddenly aged a lifetime in just a few short days. To Faramir it looked like the face of a stranger.

 _“Aurë entuluva,”_ the Steward had said, signaling the traditional closing of the vigil, raising his candle to the crowd.

 _“Aurë entuluva,”_ they’d answered as one, echoing the words out of the deeps of time. _“Day shall come again.”_ But the words sounded hollow and it seemed as if no one believe this long night could ever end.

As the subdued crowd dispersed, Faramir had heard mutters of “tragic” and “the poor boys” and “so young.” A few people, recognizing him in the darkness, had murmured quiet words with looks of pity until the crowd had at last cleared and he was left alone. He knew he should be at home, but couldn’t face the thought of returning to the cold, dark chambers, his father’s hunched and vacant gaze, and his brother’s unnaturally quiet company.

High above the city, the winking stars were hard and bright in their dark field. There was no moon. Faramir shivered. The elves, it was said, loved the starlight more than anything else and yet men looked ever to the sun for hope, wavering in their fear of the dark and what it held. _“Lacho calad! Drego morn! – Flame Light! Flee Night!”_ had been the battle cry of the Edain of the north long ago, words that had come down through the ages in the great black and red books borne from Numenor’s downfall.

_Flame light._

____

Faramir could see a few lingering embers, glowing in the great braziers placed around the dark and empty courtyard. Gathering up his own candle, which he had left unlit throughout the ceremony, he rose on numbed legs and made his way over to the glowing coals. The candle caught quickly, its tiny flame waxing in strength. Holding the long taper carefully, he returned to his seat on the wall. Slowly he dripped the wax onto the stone of the parapet before pressing the candle upright where it stood on its own. Below, the city was dark and quiet, with only a hint of light peeking out of windows and from behind closed doors.

__

A bitter breeze, borne from the east, brushed his face and attacked the unprotected candle, sending its flame spiraling in twists as it guttered. Looking past the candle, Faramir could see the distant but threatening spikes of the Ethel Dúath on the borders of Mordor as a deeper black in the already-dark night. This was the wind his mother had hated. She had pined away in this cold stone city far from the sea she loved, unable to weather the dark eastern wind. At least that is what his father had said.

__

Cupping his hands around the small flame he watched as it slowly grew again in strength.

__

He wondered if his mother could feel the relentless cold where she was now. Her body lay still and dark in the steward’s chamber of Rath Dinen, but he hoped wherever her spirit was now she could see the tiny candle he had lit for her and protected against the easterly wind.

__

_“Aurë entuluva,”_ he whispered.

__

  
**2\. Henneth Annûn, Ithilien. Mettarë of Year 3018 of the 3rd Age**

__

The men hadn’t complained when they’d been informed that their unit would be spending _Mettarë_ far afield. The days were growing darker now, not only in season, and if their presence in Ithilien meant that those in Minas Tirith could celebrate the holiday in peace it would be well worth the discomfort. 

__

All the same, Faramir had felt guilty as he read the orders, knowing that many of his men had been hoping to see their families again after all these months. He felt a greater guilt when he realized he was happier here in the garrison, and away from Minas Tirith, especially now that Boromir had gone north.

__

Here in Ithilien, at least, they had ready wood to feed the small fires the men had built up in braziers around the cave, and despite their danger they seemed cheerful enough with their extra rations of food and wine.

__

The men had asked him for some words, in honor of the occasion, and Faramir had complied with the request reluctantly. It was a duty that had previously fallen to his brother. He remembered when Boromir had spoken to a full garrison in Osgiliath only a year ago for the _Mettarë_ celebration. That was before the sudden onslaught and dark terror that had left them no choice but to destroy the bridge, and before the dreams had pulled Boromir away to the empty north in search of answers. Had he really left just six months ago? It seemed an eternity.

__

Faramir knew he had none of his brother’s skill with speeches. Instead, he spoke briefly on their successes that year and their duty to continue the fight against the spreading darkness that loomed so close.

__

“With the Valar’s help, and our own courage, we will drive this darkness back. _Aurë entuluva,"_ he had said in closing as he raised his glass as he looked out at their drawn but quiet faces, flickering in the firelight.

__

_“Aurë entuluva,”_ they answered, raising their own glasses to toast.

__

Leaving his men to enjoy the fire and conversation, Faramir slipped aside and climbing the steep rock-hewn steps at the back of the cave. Out on the water-worn expanse of stone he drew his cloak closer. The air was icy and still after the close, smoky warmth of the cave. To his right the stream sped by before thundering over the cliff to the pool below. Making sure no sign of the fire or sound of his men’s soft voices was apparent to the outside world, he made his way carefully to the edge and looked out. 

__

Westward, the moon was sinking behind Ered Nimrais as it illuminated the empty stretches of land between. Where the closest and tallest point stood he thought he could make out a solitary flicker of white as the moon struck the tower of Ecthelion high above the city. Leagues away he knew his father would be leading the vigil, as he did every year. 

__

As the moon passed behind the mountains, the stars above burst into sudden light. Most of the stars had been placed in the heavens long ago by Varda, many to inspire hope and memory, but brightest of all burned Ëarendil with his unquenchable fire.

Looking toward the solitary star, hanging low over the Northern horizon, Faramir wondered how many long leagues lay between him and his brother, and whether Boromir walked in the dark, looking up at the same stars. Perhaps he had found Imladris, and was feasting this very moment with the elves. Or perhaps he lay dead somewhere in the vast empty lands, shrouded in mist or cold water.

Faramir shivered as the stream beside him plunged on relentlessly, tossing itself into empty air as it fell to the rocks below. Wrapping his cloak tighter, he sent out a wish for his brother’s safe return as he made his way back down into the cave.

__

Later that night, he retrieved a long white taper he had held unused for months in his pack. Out in the cave the men were long asleep, on rolls and mats, and wrapped in coarse blankets. The fires had burned low, and from the embers of one he lit the candle, before retreating quietly to his alcove.

__

Just as he had every year since that vigil 30 years before, he let the wax drip until the candle could hold itself upright, and sent a silent wish that wherever she was, his mother could see the small flame.

__

After a moment of quiet contemplation, he turned and pulled a second candle from his pack. This one was a short, inelegant, tallow candle; ration-issued and practical. Gently he set the candle to the flame and watched as together they sent up one long wavering tongue of flame. As with the first candle, he set it carefully down in a pool of wax and watched as they flickered side-by-side. Hope and memory. 

__

He hoped that wherever Boromir was tonight he was able to light a candle as well.

__

_“Aurë entuluva,”_ he whispered.

__

  
**3\. Edoras, Rohan. Mettarë of Year 3019 of the 3rd Age**

__

The revelry and boisterous atmosphere of Edoras was unlike anything Faramir had ever experienced during _Mettarë,_ or frankly at any other time of year. Here, of course, the Roharrim had their own traditional name for the solstice celebration, but out of respect for Faramir and the other visiting Gondorians, they had used its Westron name within his hearing. 

__

The central hearths of Meduseld blazed, heating the whole hall with radiant warmth. Everywhere food was piled high on feast platters. There were roasted meats, glazed breads and smoked fish; tankards overflowing with mead, and goblets filled with wine. It was the first _Mettarë_ since the darkness in the east had passed, and all of Rohan filled the halls – townsfolk and nobles alike mingling in the festivities.

__

It had taken Faramir a good half hour to overcome his initial reservations – so different was this from the _Mettarë_ he had known all his life. He couldn’t help but think how distasteful and rustic his father would have found it. He pushed the thought hastily from his mind, and at last joined in conversation with a few Riders, drifting from conversation to conversation with his glass of wine. For a while he stood, watching with amusement as Éomer downed his fourth tankard in a good-natured, if competitive, contest with several of his men. To his disappointment, Faramir had only been able to catch brief glimpses of Éowyn all evening as she played the role of hostess for the last time here. This time next year they would be married and celebrating their first _Mettarë_ at Emyn Arnen.

__

As the evening drew on, and the crowd became increasingly rowdy, he made his way to the door and slipped out onto high stone terrace that overlooked the empty fields below. The stars were remote and bright, and a chill wind flowed down from Ered Nimrais above.

__

A moment later he heard the door creak behind him, sending out a brief flood of light, warmth, and noise as it opened and shut again. Éowyn slipped quietly to his side and turned to survey the silent night.

__

“Are you well, my lord?” she asked at last. “I fear this is a far cry from what you are used to in your own celebrations.”

__

He assured her that, though it was indeed different, it was not at all an unwelcome change.

__

“Indeed,” he added, “I hope we can incorporate elements of both our traditions in the future.”

__

She smiled softly at that, but reminded him that, while he’d now seen her traditions, she still knew nothing of his.

__

“Is the celebration happening in Minas Tirith tonight so very different then?” She asked, and together they’d turned to look east, along the line of the mountains. 

__

“It is. More grave and solemn, as you might expect,” he answered with a small smile. “At this moment, Lord Aragorn is undoubtedly presiding over a candlelight vigil before the white tree and a large, silent crowd. I do not envy him at all."

__

He did not mention his sudden thought that, had Aragorn not taken up the kingship after the war – instead vanishing back into the North as he had done years before – it would be Faramir himself standing before that large and silent crowd tonight.

__

Something of his disquiet must have shown on his face for Éowyn drew suddenly closer and took his hand.

__

“Please, do no think that by inviting you here I mean to keep you from whatever traditions you would observe.” She said, “We have candles, which are at your disposal, should you wish it. But, perhaps, you might share this tradition with me?”

__

Assuring her that he would be honored to share the tradition, he watched as she slipped away to retrieve the candles. He wondered briefly at how fortunate he was, after a solitary lifetime, to have found someone who might actually wish share in it.

__

Éowyn returned a few moments later, wrapped more warmly against the night air in her starry mantle. In her arms were a number of candles, which she laid gently on the flagstones.

__

Kneeling down, Faramir selected two long white tapers, which he lit from the small braziers that lined the edge of the terrace before handing one carefully to Éowyn.

__

“We begin by facing west, just as we do before each meal: towards Númenor that was, Elvenhome that is, and that which is beyond that will be forever.” He explained, as they looked towards the dark mountains that loomed above, tipped with silver and crowed with stars.

__

“Then some speech is made about finding and returning, hope and memory, and the return of the world to light. It seems more fitting than ever this year.”

__

At his side, Éowyn listened gravely as he spoke. Her golden hair glinted in the unsteady light and the silver stars embroidered on the hem of the mantle mirrored the stars above.

__

“We always close with ancient words spoken by our ancestors long ago in the darkness of the north: _“Aurë entuluva – Day shall come again.”_

__

_“Aurë entuluva,”_ Éowyn said, echoed the words softly.

__

“For myself,” Faramir continued after a moment in a quieter voice, “I light a candle every year for those I’ve lost.”

__

Kneeling, he carefully tilted his candle before pressing it into the soft wax on the edge of the terrace.

__

“A candle for my mother, buried in cold stone. She died long ago. I can hardly remember her now, but my brother still could. A candle for Boromir, my brother” he said, lighting a second. “Gone less than a year to the flowing sea.”

__

He remembered his hopefully candle from a year ago and the silent boat upon the Anduin and shivered.

__

“And a candle for my father, only a few months gone,” he said as he lit a final candle and set it quickly down beside the others.

He tried not to think about the fire that had consumed his father. Sometimes, in his dreams, Faramir thought he could feel the lick of those flames himself.

__

He looked towards Éowyn who had watched without a word. Kneeling she placed her own lit candle gently beside Faramir’s.

__

“My mother died when I was young as well. Shortly after my father was killed,” she murmured.

__

A second candle, she lit for her brother-like cousin, Théodred, slain in the defense of the Fords. And finally a third for Théoden, her uncle and foster-father, who lay just beyond the palisades in his barrow, covered in white evermind. Though they had talked often of their childhood and lives in the past months, Faramir knew there were still many things yet to share.

__

Taking his hand, Éowyn leaned her head gently against his shoulder and they stood, watching the six candle flames twist upwards in the darkness.

__

_“Aurë entuluva,” Éowyn whispered._

__

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! This is my first time posting and I'm excited to share this piece I wrote 5 years ago and have finally worked up the nerve to share. This was originally written right after an extensive LoTR, Silm, and Unfinished Tales reread so I'm really just hoping past-me knew what I was talking about.
> 
> All characters, of course, belong to JRR Tolkien and his estate.  
> Do not repost elsewhere.
> 
> Thanks for reading and Happy Holidays!


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